The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  Helen’s heart stopped thumping; Sadie was safe, just fine.

  ‘Do you want me to come up there with you, to find out what’s going on?’ Helen suspected the entire population of the village would be out on their doorsteps, necks craned for the best view.

  ‘Yes. But come quick.’

  Helen grabbed a jacket, and pulled it onto one arm as she shoved her feet into her wellies – the easiest footwear to get into in a rush. She finished dressing herself as she and her daughter cantered through the village, along the middle of the road. They weren’t alone; all three of the Wingfields were doing the same thing, and Helen could see Reverend Thomas running – as best he could, given his portly figure and advancing years – from the boxy 1930’s vicarage the church had built when the previous version had been condemned.

  As she’d suspected, the villagers had skipped the stage of merely observing through pulled-back net curtains, and most were already hovering at their front doors, standing on slippered tiptoes, shouting comments to each other across the road, from house to house. Helen wondered where her mother was; it wasn’t like Nan Jones to miss out on such an epic occurrence.

  As they reached the whitewashed cottage where Gwen and Aled Beynon lived, Helen could see Sadie had been right in her suspicion; Aled was wearing baggy trousers, a hoodie, and handcuffs. She was pretty certain that meant they were actually arresting him, not just taking him in for questions this time.

  The vicar was comforting a sobbing Gwen, and Aled was crying, looking lost and confused, searching the crowd for a friendly face – maybe a savior.

  ‘Aled!’ called Sadie. It was the most viscerally plaintive sound Helen had ever heard come out of her daughter – even considering her infant screams – and it made her wonder about how Sadie truly felt about the boy.

  Would she be this distressed if she didn’t like him as more than a friend?

  Helen was distracted by the arrival of her mother, panting and pink in the face, who snapped, ‘Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know until I got here,’ was out of Helen’s mouth before she could stop herself.

  Her cheekiness drew the expected vinegar look from her mother, plus the equally predictable, ‘Don’t you talk back to me like that, young lady.’

  After Aled had been driven away, through a huddle which parted to allow the police car to leave the village, the vicar raised his hands, trying to get all the chatter to stop. Eventually, silence reigned. ‘I’m going to be staying here with Mrs Beynon for the moment, but I’m sure the entire community will pull together to support her through this very distressing time.’ Helen noticed he caught her mother’s glare. ‘Maybe Mrs Bevan would be so good as to act as the main point of contact for people who want to come to spend a little time with Mrs Beynon. Would you do that for Gwen, Mair?’

  Helen watched her mother’s face pucker as Mair agreed to do as the vicar had asked. She wondered if her mother wanted to shout the word ‘Judas’ at her old friend, or whether she hoped the look of utter disgust and hatred on her face would convey the same message. Mair’s blush suggested it had.

  The vicar continued, ‘I’m sure you all what to know what’s happened, and what we’ve been told is this – Aled has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Dean Hughes. He’s being taken into custody, in Swansea, and will be receiving appropriate legal representation. Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins, as we all know from our interactions with the police in recent months, is heading up the investigation, which he now believes is concluded with this arrest. However, I am sure we all share Mrs Beynon’s hope – no, belief – that Aled has been incorrectly arrested, and that the whole matter will be resolved by the truth coming to light.’

  With the exclamations among the neighbors reduced to a subdued whispering, people began to return to their homes; the vicar put his arm around Gwen and accompanied her into her cottage. As soon as the door shut behind the pair, Helen was horrified to see her mother spit at the doorstep, then turn to leave. Torn between comforting her child and chiding her mother, Helen stayed with Sadie, and hugged her to her bosom, where her daughter sobbed for several minutes.

  ‘This is the worst day of my life, Mam,’ she spluttered, her voice thick with tears. ‘I know he didn’t do it. We have to save him. Will you help me? Please?’

  Helen wondered if Sadie had a bit of a crush on the boy.

  Sadie was shaking with emotion. ‘Mam, please, you’ve got to help. For some reason Nan hates him and his gran, so it’s us against her. Please don’t side with her this time – not like you always do. Please Mam. Pick me this time?’

  What did Sadie mean, pick her this time? Helen couldn’t recall a single instance when she’d ever chosen her mother over her daughter. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Sadie was asking her to choose; it was an easy decision to make.

  8th March

  Nan

  Nan shouted up the stairs, ‘Come on Sadie, it’s Saturday so you’ve got no school to get up for, but we need your help. You can’t have a lie in today. Up. Now. We’re making sandwiches for the TV people. Out of that bed. You’re needed.’

  Nan hoped her granddaughter would shake a leg and shift herself; Helen was doing a fair job in the pub kitchen, but more hands would make faster work of it.

  If only Nan could get specially discounted sandwiches and coffee from the pub into the hands of all those people out there in their cars and vans, she reckoned she stood a better chance of them choosing to patronize her premises when it came to lunches, and whatever else they might need, rather than the bloody Cwtch. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Since Rhosddraig had first hit the local headlines, Nan had noticed a slight upturn in ‘hikers’ dropping into the pub, and asking seemingly innocent questions about the Beynon family. Until this morning it had only been the local TV who’d been there, now the others had turned up. And the newspapers, too. Nan reckoned she might make a pretty penny out of them – and maybe not just by selling food; she’d heard that sometimes people were paid for interviews.

  For now, they all seemed to be wandering around the small collection of stone cottages, or out along the closest part of the coastal path leading toward the Dragon’s Head. Getting themselves acquainted with the area, and battling the ever-present wind. Wrapping themselves in scarves, they seemed to like what they saw, as Nan had suspected they would; one thing you could say about Rhosddraig – it didn’t disappoint when it came to picturesque village life, and stunning views.

  She’d made a special effort when getting dressed, wearing her new-ish navy slacks, with a rose turtle-necked jumper, and had gone so far as to put on a bit of lipstick – something she usually reserved for church. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with trying to make a good impression.

  ‘Where did we put those big baskets we had full of dried grasses beside the fireplace last autumn?’ she called to Helen in the kitchen.

  ‘I think they’re out in the shed, Mum. The one that doesn’t let the rain in. Why?’

  ‘I thought the sandwiches would look good in them; you know, throw in one of those old checked tablecloths as a liner, and make them look all countrified. Presentation is very important in the licensed trade. I’m glad you’ve given the place a good going over these past few days; it needed it, and it’ll pay off with all those people coming here from London. I bet they’ll be interested in some nice pies and so forth for their lunches. Have we got any spare menus? Run some copies off on the printer; we can hand them out to everyone out there, so they know what’s on offer. Just plain, not color.’

  Helen shouted her reply, ‘I’m up to my armpits in sandwiches, Mum. Maybe Sadie could help with those other things?’

  Nan tutted. ‘She’s still in bed. Dawdling. You go and get her up. She’s not taking any notice of me.’

  With that, Nan stepped out of the side door and lit a cigarette.

  Bloody ingrate; Sadie was young, she should be helping her mother and
her gran. She’d had a right old cob on since they’d carted that Aled away; not talking to anyone, sulking, and coming home late from school every day, all week. Helen was covering for her, saying Sadie was choosing to stay on after classes to do some extra studying, but Nan didn’t believe it for a minute. Getting up to all sorts, that girl was. Her mother, too. Helen had even gone out to pick her up in the car a couple of times. That was new.

  Nan had seen the way Sadie had been upset by Aled being taken away by the police, and she knew about the card he’d sent her, of course. It was just as well they’d locked him up; it meant he couldn’t get anywhere near her Sadie. Best thing for him. Let him rot. Although she’d never seen it, she was sure he had a temper on him. Born and raised on the Dragon’s Back? Almost bound to. That was one local legend she knew to be true – the way a person whose first breath was taken on the Dragon’s Back could well turn out to have an angry soul. Especially the men.

  It was just gone eight when three generations of Jones women set out with baskets of sandwiches, menus, and pots of coffee. Nan was delighted by how happy all the reporters were to have something good to eat and drink. Gallons of coffee and almost all the sandwiches were consumed; her special low prices paid off. Nan even went so far as to offer a ten percent discount on all food bought in the pub by anyone with press credentials – once she found out what they were, and saw what they looked like.

  There was no way she was going to let that English lot at the so-called cwtch take business away from her.

  Helen and Sadie did most of the selling, so Nan was able to talk to the reporters as she took their money, and she learned a great deal. Unfortunately, not all of it was good; it sounded as though many of them had a great deal of sympathy for Aled, seeing this as a story offering the opportunity to bash the police.

  Nan didn’t like it. She decided to seed some other ideas about the boy.

  Helen told her not to say anything, but Nan knew best; she was rather pleased with herself when she managed to let it slip that Aled had lost his mother to a drug overdose. She knew she didn’t have to say much, so she just gave them his mother’s name, and knew they would find out the whole sordid story; much better to let them think they’d joined the dots for themselves.

  When they returned to the pub, one of the reporters followed Nan to ask if he could come to have a private chat with her.

  ‘How much?’ she replied, which seemed to surprise him. But she’d decided to take her chance, and reckoned he was a good one to take it with; he was a doughy-looking specimen, white-faced, with pimples on his chin. Looked like he’d never seen the sun.

  ‘I’m just wanting some background information,’ he whined. ‘It’s not the sort of thing we’d usually pay for. We know he used to work for you, at your pub. You could tell me your impressions of him. If you could help me out, I might manage to get my editor to use a photo of you, standing outside the pub – you know, with the name on display.’

  Nan gave it some thought. ‘Better than nothing,’ she said. ‘Come to the side door in half an hour.’

  She planned to sound him out about what sort of stories were paid for, because she knew quite a lot about the Beynon family, and she might be prepared to share that knowledge, if it helped pay the bills.

  As it was, the so-called interview didn’t work out as she’d hoped; he’d only been with her in the upstairs kitchen for five minutes, when Helen joined them. She walked in, sat down, and made it obvious she wasn’t leaving. Nan felt her daughter’s eyes boring into her, so she kept the whole thing pretty straightforward – said Aled had been generally helpful, if given detailed and frequent instructions. Then she posed outside the pub in her church coat for a photo or two.

  ‘Why did you plonk yourself down with me like that? I was doing an interview. It was private.’ She allowed her disgust to show when she spoke to Helen as she hung up her coat.

  ‘Mum, these people are our neighbors. They’ll be our neighbors long after all those reporters have gone. Don’t go saying things you’ll regret. You know how you can get, especially about Gwen Beynon.’

  ‘I don’t “get” any particular way about that woman. Nor her family. Though I’d have good reason to, if I so chose. It was a cheap way to get the name of the pub into a big newspaper. You might not like to think it, but there’ll be a lot of folks who’ll want to come to Rhosddraig just because one of our own burned someone to death up there on the hill. Can’t help themselves – it’s human nature to be curious.’

  ‘Mum, it’s not curiosity, its ghoulishness. We don’t want that sort of person coming here.’

  Nan lit a cigarette. ‘You know your problem? You have no idea that we need people coming into my pub to spend money, which you can then go frittering away on whatever you please. This pub has supported you your whole life, and it’s supported your daughter. We can’t be picky about who we sell our beer and pies to. All money is good money.’ That was telling her. ‘And don’t you go thinking that just because I’ve managed to get that foreign girl from Lower Middleford, Agata, to agree to do a few shifts behind the bar that you can go gallivanting off all over the place whenever you like. I’ll need you here, not running around after Sadie all the time. She’s perfectly capable of catching the late bus home after school.’

  Nan didn’t like the way Helen sighed when she replied, ‘Yes, Mum, I understand,’ and left the room.

  But she’d said her piece; that was important.

  11th March

  Sadie

  It’s been a fantastic weekend, and an even better start to the week. Oh my God, this #wrongboy10 and @wrongboy10 thing has really taken off. I mentioned it to a couple of the younger reporters who were in the village at the weekend, and they put it into their stories.

  It’s gone berserk.

  By Sunday afternoon, #wrongboy10 was trending, and not just in Wales. Wandralee Wonder has started Retweeting all the #wrongboy10 and @wrongboy10 Tweets. Wandralee Wonder! She’s got nearly two million followers. It’s made the whole thing so much more powerful. I just wish I could do more of it from home, but Mam and I agree it’s best if I only do it from the library in Killay, and she also agreed I could get the bus to Sketty and do some from the library there. If I spread it around, no one will ever know it’s me.

  Mam even came and picked me up from Sketty a couple of times last week because I’d missed the late bus home. It’s our secret, Nan mustn’t get wind of it, and I know it’ll make a difference to Aled.

  I had a couple of study periods this morning, so I went into Killay and did some new Tweets about that horrible Dean Hughes. I’ve no idea who he really was, and I don’t understand how they’ve come up with his name, but he sounds like a right waste of space, from what I’ve read about him online.

  Someone like that won’t be missed.

  Not like Aled is missed.

  People have to understand that, don’t they?

  That not everyone is worth the same.

  I mean, the Hughes bloke was a real blight on our society. I don’t think it’s enough that people believe Aled’s innocent; when the police try to prove he did it – which they will, by lying – then everyone has to know he was really just getting rid of someone who was doing harm to lots of kids. By dealing filthy drugs.

  That Hughes was a leech, feeding on weakness. He deserved to die – that’s what they’ve got to believe too. That’s my goal. It’s what I can do for Aled.

  Just a few minutes after I wrote those Tweets, they had hundreds of thousands of Likes and Retweets. It’s getting so fast, now. It’s got to be making a difference, I know it.

  Nan can gossip all she wants about Aled around the village, but I’m making real people, out there in the real world, change their minds about him. Hundreds of thousands of them. All over the world. Maybe millions. The @wrongboy10 account has over 214,000 followers now. Aled would be amazed.

  On Friday afternoon I uploaded a photo of Aled I took at the Remembrance Day service, wearing his surplice a
nd ruffle; it got over a million likes by this morning. Over a million! I never imagined this would happen.

  It’s fantastic.

  15th March

  Evan

  ‘You don’t look too happy this morning, Mr Glover,’ said Betty pouring a cuppa from the pot. ‘I know it’s chucking it down out there, but you’re usually my little ray of sunshine. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Glover,’ replied Evan, forcing a smile.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Evan held up his tablet, showing his wife the headlines he’d been digesting.

  He’d been slow to accept that using online newspapers would make a good alternative to his previous at-work access to pretty much everything in print, but now he couldn’t imagine any other way of accessing information. He could read all the papers and magazines he wanted, watch video clips as he chose, and even follow stories in online publications from around the globe he’d never considered reading.

  It was like a whole new world opening up to him – both literally and figuratively. He’d become something of a news-addict since he’d retired. He could barely recall a time when all he’d read was the day-old stuff that came out in print, on paper. Now everything was up-to-the-minute fresh; he’d even set up Breaking News Alerts on his phone.

  Betty pushed her reading glasses onto her nose and took the tablet from him. He watched her eyes dart back and forth as she took it all in. He poured out the half a mug of tea remaining in the pot, then moved to boil the kettle to refill it. As he looked out onto their little patch of garden with its bedraggled winter pansies and the daffs all but gone over – the same as every other garden along their street of semis – he was just a little glad he wasn’t out there in the weather, chasing down a suspect, or a lead.